


The Way of the Wolf

by stfustucky (iwillpaintasongforlou)



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Exhibitionism, Geralt is a hybrid of game and netflix, I'm going to be honest this is just the wolves fucking each other for dominance, Jaskier has learned to calm the fuck down a bit, M/M, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Geralt, Vesemir is too old for this shit, Voyeurism, Wrestling, he has feelings but is bad at words, lots of rough sex and wrestling, sappy geralt, they show who's the boss by coming inside of each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:00:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24544270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwillpaintasongforlou/pseuds/stfustucky
Summary: Every winter upon arriving at Kaer Morhen, the wolves compete with one another in a tradition called The Challenges, in order to prove who among them is the strongest, the fittest to be alpha. Quick, furious matches in which the winner breeds his brother and the loser accepts his place in the pack. Geralt is the long-standing alpha of the pack, and Jaskier is the love of his life who's coming to winter with him at Kaer Morhen for the first time. It's going to make onehellof a ballad.(In other words, the wolves wrestle and fuck each other every winter at Kaer Morhen to determine dominance. Jaskier gets a front row view and he's into it.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 27
Kudos: 441
Collections: Fave Stories of Queixo





	The Way of the Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> Before we get started, I want to be up front about two things:
> 
> 1: Eskel and Lambert have sex, and then Eskel and Geralt. I didn't tag for those relationships because they literally only have sex with each other in order to establish dominance. Dassit. But if you aren't into that, maybe pass on this fic.
> 
> 2: Everything that happens here is fully consensual. They're fighting each other off because it's a dominance game, not because they haven't consented. Everyone involved in this game knows exactly what they're doing and is on board with it, even if they aren't pleased with the outcome.
> 
> Those things being said, enjoy some shameless wolf pack fuckery!
> 
> Shoutout to my beta eyesofshinigami for the encouragement and screaming and grammar checking <3 you're the real MVP

It only took about ten years of traveling with Geralt for him to get an invitation to come back with him to Kaer Morhen for winter. 

The thought sounds sarcastic even in Jaskier’s head, but he really is impressed with the speed at which his dear, emotionally constipated witcher had come to make the offer. Considering that it had taken eight of those years just to get Geralt to give up the “grumpy and unaffected” routine and admit that he wanted Jaskier as much as Jaskier wanted him, the fact that it only took two years of them continuing their torturous routine of winters apart was downright miraculous. 

Geralt had asked him first thing in the spring. It had been two days of frantic fucking before they’d brought themselves to check out of the inn, and that was mostly because everything in the room was so thoroughly covered in a gossamer sheen of sweat and spend that it wasn’t even comfortable to stay there anymore. Which was fine-- Geralt had already been starting to get that look in his eyes that said he was ready to roam. Jaskier didn’t hold it against him. That was just the way of the witcher, that’s all.

First thing out on the road, however, Jaskier had been pulled from his contemplation about the precise shade of green created by sunlight filtering through maple leaves by Geralt’s deep voice, even quieter than normal.

“You should come with me.”

Jaskier had blinked up at him, perched upon Roach’s back, trying to read the meaning in Geralt’s eyes even as the witcher refused to make eye contact with him. “I  _ am _ coming with you, darling. Rock troll, right, east of here?”

“Kaer Morhen.”

“The rock troll is in Kaer Morhen?”

Geralt had rolled his eyes and sighed like a man much put-upon as he’d looked down at the bard. “Come with me, to Kaer Morhen, next winter.”

If Jaskier knew his own face, he could reasonably assume he’d done a terrible job of keeping it neutral as he processed the weight of that request. He had been traveling with Geralt long enough to know what Kaer Morhen meant to him and what was left of his family. The sacred home of the wolves, their safe haven, shared with none… and suddenly Jaskier, of all the insignificant people in the world, had an invitation.

It was too much to process in that moment, so naturally Jaskier decided to lighten the moment by sticking his foot in his big fat mouth. “Miss my arse while you were there?”

And Geralt, in an effort to destroy his poetic little heart, hadn’t skipped a beat. “I missed  _ you.” _

After that, there had been nothing left to do except swallow the lump of emotion in his throat, train his eyes safely on the path instead of on warm amber eyes, and mutter out a simple, “Well then. Guess I’d better keep an eye out for a heavier cloak.”

………………… 

He keeps bringing it up throughout the year, oddly enough. It’s little bursts of information delivered here and there, seemingly at random, as if Geralt is trying to prepare him. Jaskier does his level best --which is a pretty shitty effort, admittedly-- to hold his tongue in these moments. He’ll let Geralt feed him news of his home one painstaking spoonful at a time, and not push for more.

**_APRIL_ **

“There… aren’t many of us left. You know that the-- the witcher schools were sacked. There…. Four.”

“Four?”

“Wolves, left. Myself, the man who trained me, and two others. They are… brothers. To me.”

“How many were there before?”

Geralt doesn’t answer that one, just clenches his jaw and looks straight ahead as they continue down the road to some contract Geralt is chasing. Jaskier supposes the flicker of rage and grief in his eyes is answer enough.

**_MAY_ **

“Winter isn’t all rest at the keep. There’s work to be done. Repairs to be made. Animals to be tended. Potions and decoctions to be restocked. We work hard, and  _ then _ we rest.”

“I don’t suppose any of the work that needs doing involves sitting around and looking pretty?”

Geralt’s smile is as quiet as it is tender as he gazes across the bedroll at Jaskier. “Not much of it. Suppose you could sit on your arse while you polish swords, if you wanted. And you always look… nice.”

“I’ll take it.”

**_JUNE_ **

They’re staking out the swampy nest of some foul creature, which is a strange time indeed for Geralt to start talking, but when the thick, humid night air swallows Geralt’s words and makes them disappear shortly after they pass through his lips, Jaskier thinks he understands the timing.

“Vesemir, the man who trained me. He’s old even for a witcher. Not sure how old. Old enough that the grandfathers of kings are as babies to him.”

“How… how long do witchers live, exactly?”

“Until they fuck up and die,” Geralt answers bluntly. “Most never see Vesemir’s years. He doesn’t wander the path anymore.”

“I thought witchers never retire?”

One broad shoulder twitched in a shrug. “Most never want to. Or don’t get the chance. He… keeps the old ways for us. Says the silver is better in a young witcher’s hand. His are better suited for books and herbs now.”

Privately, Jaskier doubts  _ any _ witcher, however old, would ever be ineffective with a sword, but he doesn’t argue. “So he’s your leader?”

“Not our leader,” Geralt quickly corrects with a shake of his head. “He… guides. Teaches.”

“Like an elder?”

“Like an elder.”

The silence falls heavily around their shoulders again, Jaskier waiting to see if Geralt would offer any more details, but none come. Eventually, Geralt stands and offers a hand to Jaskier to help him do the same. Jaskier takes it and looks at him in surprise. “But what about the-- the thingy?”

“Scent’s faint. Hasn’t been here in a few days, probably won’t come back. Need a new lead. Let’s go.”

Jaskier wonders how long he’s known that there would be no beast in their trap tonight. He doesn’t ask.

**_JULY_ **

“It’ll be cold.”

“Well I figured that, darling, I know which direction North is.”

“You’ll need to wrap up, when we go up the mountain.”

“Already bought some nice thick socks and mittens from that merchant a few weeks ago. No frostbite for me, not on my delicate fingers!”

“Still won’t be warm. Not till we get inside. The cold gets in your bones.”

“Guess you’ll have to work extra hard to warm me up, then, won’t you, witcher dearest?”

“Hmmm.”

**_AUGUST_ **

They’ve just finished fucking, and Jaskier is still boneless on the inn’s rough straw mattress as Geralt places kisses down his spine that are so tender they ought to be illegal. He hums a wordless tune while Geralt cleans him up, then crawls into bed behind him and pulls Jaskier’s back flush to his chest like a rag doll clutched by a little girl. Jaskier doesn’t share the analogy, lest he lose this prize place in Geralt’s strong embrace.

“There was one other who went through the trials with me who still lives. His name is Eskel.”

Jaskier had almost been ready to drift asleep, but his mind quickly resurfaces from bliss when Geralt takes on that fragile tone that always comes from talking about home. “Were you close?”

“Brothers.” Geralt leaves it at that for a moment, inhaling at the crook of Jaskier’s neck for comfort. “He knows me like no one else does.”

A little tingle of jealousy winds its way up Jaskier’s spine, and he tries to let the emotion pass before Geralt has a chance to sniff him out. “You were involved?”

“Not… exactly,” Geralt replies. “At the keep, we-- we’re not shy. We’ve all fucked at some point, one way or another.”

“Oh.” It shouldn’t make him feel small to hear, but Jaskier shrinks even in the circle of Geralt’s arms, even with Geralt’s sweat cooling on his skin. “Still?”

“Sometimes. Winters.”

It’s news to Jaskier, but not exactly unexpected. Neither one of them was shy about a past that was rife with sexual partners, and they’d never  _ exactly _ talked about exclusivity, even if neither of them took another lover when they traveled together. It made sense that Geralt would seek comfort where he could, with winter raging cold outside and Jaskier nowhere in sight. He probably wouldn’t even fault Jaskier for doing the same.

(And if Jaskier hadn’t, for two winters now, he certainly isn’t going to divulge that  _ now.) _

Geralt has almost certainly scented his discomfort, because there are gentle kisses behind Jaskier’s ear and a solid, warm, steady witcher palm sliding up to span across Jaskier’s chest above his heart. “It’s not like this,” Geralt says, and it sounds like an apology. “I don’t… love them.” He growls a bit, dissatisfied with his own words. “I don’t love them the way I love you. It’s not like this. I only want you.”

Jaskier isn’t sure he understands that, not entirely, but he lets himself be quiet as the words run through his head until they can settle somewhere in his soul in a place where he can live with them. Eventually he relaxes, and Geralt thanks him for his silent understanding by sliding down to take Jaskier’s cock in his mouth, and everything will be alright.

**_SEPTEMBER_ **

“Do you have bathtubs in Kaer Morhen, or do you all just go roll in the snow until your fur is all wet and call it a day?” Jaskier asks lazily, head leaned back against the rim of the tub.

It’s luxuriously large, even if a bit lukewarm, and Geralt is at the other end with Jaskier’s foot in one hand, pressing his thumbs into the arch with just enough superhuman strength to make Jaskier moan. He’s a miracle worker, when he wants to be. “No bathtubs,” he hums.

Jaskier’s head jerks up, alarmed. “What, really?! I was just teasing you! What, is it all sponge baths in winter? I never noticed you being filthier than usual come spring, but Melitele’s cunt, Geralt--”

“No tubs because we don’t need them,” Geralt interrupts his spiral. “There are hot springs beneath Kaer Morhen. We bathe there.”

“Hot springs? A bunch of witchers, kings of self-denial and perpetual rejectors of worldly pleasures, have  _ hot springs _ beneath their fortress?”

Geralt kisses the bottom of Jaskier’s foot and lets it slide back under the water so that he can give the opposite foot the same treatment. “We didn’t build it. It was already there. We just take advantage.”

“Well I, for one, will never forgive you for keeping these hot springs from me for a  _ decade, _ you mangy mutt.”

“Hmmm.”

**_OCTOBER_ **

Geralt is covered in siren guts, having dispatched a cluster of several nests of them without so much as breaking a sweat, hacking at one’s neck with a dagger so that he can bring it back to the town alderman as proof to collect the reward for the contract. “Lambert.”

“Hmm?” Jaskier asks, using a stick to move one of the dead creature’s wings out of its face so that he can better write about their demise at the hands of humanity’s mighty and heroic protector. He’s getting great at pretending like he’s not about to vomit when he sees dead monsters.

“The last of us. Me, Vesemir, Eskel, and Lambert.” Geralt wipes the dagger roughly on the grass and tucks it back into the side of his boot. “Lambert is a little younger than Eskel and I.”

“What’s he like?”

“He’s an asshole. Drives me up the fucking wall.”

“Oh.” Jaskier hadn’t been expecting that. “Do you not like him?”

Geralt tosses an amused look over his shoulder at the bard. “I love him.”

“Right. But you…” Jaskier trails off, never sure how deep he can probe for information about Geralt’s family before his poor witcher will clam up.

“You can love someone and still be annoyed by them. I still let you travel with me, don’t I?”

Jaskier lets out a very undignified squawk that he will deny to his dying day, and Geralt’s laugh scatters birds from the trees. It takes him the entire trek back to town to come up with an adequately scathing rebuttal, and Geralt is kind enough not to call him out on that. Whoever said witchers were without mercy?

**_NOVEMBER_ **

They start heading for Kaer Morhen earlier than any other time Jaskier’s ever seen Geralt go, and they set off down a different route. “It’s different, bringing you with me,” he explains shortly when Jaskier questions the change. “My usual route is a rougher road, but faster. This way is more gradual, but it’ll take longer. Besides,” he adds, eyes sweeping over Jaskier’s slender body with something that looks suspiciously like fear, “if we get caught in a blizzard climbing to Kaer Morhen… you might never make it there at all.”

Jaskier doesn’t push for more on that, because seeing those yellow eyes tighten with worry unsettles something in his gut, too. He just nods and follows alongside Roach as usual, until the days turn too cold to play his lute as he walks and he has to trade silk doublets for layers and layers of heavy wool.

One day when they’re high enough up the mountain that Jaskier’s nose sometimes bleeds spontaneously from the dry winter air and he can’t be coerced out of his fleece-lined trousers even for a blowjob, Geralt is pacing back and forth across the camp like a manic madman. Jaskier follows his movements with his eyes, perched on a little rock that he’s padded with a folded blanket. 

He isn’t concerned by the pacing-- if there was any danger, Geralt would have swords out and would be giving Jaskier instructions about how to stay safe and out of the way. This is just him trying to rub all two of his “psychoemotional skills” brain cells together hard enough to work some feelings up out of his stubborn heart and through his mouth. Jaskier can tell by the deep, frustrated divot between his furrowed brows.

Eventually Jaskier’s silence pays off, and Geralt’s frantic reverie is broken. He comes to kneel before Jaskier, gloved hands resting on Jaskier’s knees, their faces just a few inches apart. Jaskier could count the golden flecks in his witcher’s eyes when Geralt very seriously says, “I need to tell you about Kaer Morhen.”

_ Is that not what you’ve been doing all year? _ Jaskier swallows his initial response and just nods. “I’m listening.”

“We do things… differently, there. We have ways. Ancient ways. They’re… not like anything humans do. It’s just how we are, in the school of the Wolf.”

“Alright,” Jaskier says cautiously. “Not exactly surprised. What good would a bunch of broody witchers and a mysterious castle retreat be without some spooky customs?”

Geralt doesn’t laugh, but he swallows, hard. “I don’t want you to be frightened. Of me. Of us.”

And if that doesn’t just make Jaskier  _ melt. _ He knows how much it means to him, that Jaskier is never afraid. “Oh, darling, I could never fear you,” he says earnestly, untucking one hand from beneath his arm to cup Geralt’s jaw gently. “Not my wolf. You would never hurt me, I know that. I’ve known you far too long to think of you as anything but kind and just and generous. You only hurt when you have to, and you’re never cruel.”

“Hmmm.” Geralt lets himself lean into the touch, then nudges forward so he can rest his forehead against Jaskier’s. “I…” He trails off for another moment, then pulls back to look Jaskier in the eye again as he continues. “I have authority at Kaer Morhen,” he says almost defiantly, like he’s expecting a negative reaction to come whipping at him at any moment. “You asked once if Vesemir is the leader. I am.”

“Of course you are,” Jaskier smiles. “I should have known. God among men, god among witchers.”

“Not a god. An-- alpha, we call it. The leader of the pack.” Geralt is searching his face intently.

Jaskier keeps it cool and even under Geralt’s investigation. “Alpha, got it. You don’t actually turn into a wolf for the season, do you?”

“We’re not werewolves, Jask,” Geralt says with a grimace. “No, we remain in this form. There’s just a structure, a… chain of command. It’s important to us. The pack functions better when everyone knows their place.”

A minute of silence passes between them, both of them trying to read the other. Geralt is still kneeling in front of him, looking slightly up at Jaskier and paying no attention to the frost that’s more than likely seeping through the knees of his trousers. That inscrutable face gives nothing away. Jaskier tries to grab a strand of Geralt’s hair and twirl it around his finger, wishing it were warm enough to remove his glove and touch Geralt properly. “Why are you telling me this? Or, more specifically, what  _ aren’t  _ you telling me? Because I can tell you’re not all worked up about some title.”

“The title has to be defended,” Geralt sighs, like Jaskier’s given him permission to confess. “Every winter. Every wolf in the pack gets a chance to challenge his way up the ladder, one slot at a time. We are… competitive. Few ever pass on a chance to challenge, and we fight with everything we have.”

_ Now _ fear flares in Jaskier, and he hopes his many heavy layers will keep his scent to himself so as not to rile Geralt unduly. “Will you be hurt?” he asks sharply. “And don’t lie to me, Geralt.”

For a moment, Geralt’s face goes feral, and the smile his mouth pulls into is half a snarl. “I’m alpha. They couldn’t hurt me if they  _ tried.” _ Then his features are schooled again, and he shakes his head. “Our aim isn’t to hurt one another. Just to establish dominance. Worst that’s ever happened is a broken bone, and that’s usually healed before the loser is done sulking.”

Jaskier does Geralt the honor of considering this new information carefully, rather than dismissing it out of hand. This is important for Geralt, and it’s important to him that Jaskier understands, and that makes it important to Jaskier, too. Eventually, he leans in and presses a chaste kiss to Geralt’s mouth. “I’m not afraid,” he simply says.

“We’ll see,” Geralt replies somewhat ominously, and lets it drop so that he can return Jaskier’s kiss.

………………… 

Their trek up the mountain to Kaer Morhen is torturously slow --Jaskier’s fault, probably, curse his frail human body-- and even with their early departure they’re still almost snowed out by an early winter blizzard. Nonetheless, they do arrive, in one piece despite Jaskier’s concerns that he might never feel any of his extremities again. 

Vesemir is there to greet him, as is Lambert. Vesemir is about as Jaskier expected him to be, quiet and wise and a little haunted in the eyes even for a witcher. Jaskier aches to pry into his mind, to see what stories he’s collected in centuries of traveling and fighting and teaching. Not just yet, of course, not when he’s still getting to know the man, but eventually. Later this winter, perhaps, or early the next.

Lambert, on the other hand, is a  _ delight. _ Geralt hadn’t lied, the younger witcher is definitely an asshole, but in a way that means he can trade wits with Jaskier and hold his own without pulling any punches. He had apparently spent some time training with the school of the Cat, which are a different, more vicious breed of witcher. He’s quick and agile compared to Geralt’s bulk, and after dinner when the fires in the braziers were burning low, he has some bawdy tales to tell that make even Jaskier blush.

Eskel arrives about a week after Geralt and Jaskier, and Geralt embraces him warmly. When they pull apart, several minutes pass where they look into each other’s eyes and seem to silently communicate in the way that Jaskier has sometimes seen twins do. Visually they couldn’t be more different, Eskel’s hair dark and short and his skin toned less pale than Geralt’s, but there’s something mirrored in the way they hold themselves that makes Jaskier think he might have picked Eskel out in a crowd even without the introduction.

“You must be Jaskier,” Eskel says, apropos of nothing, flicking his eyes from Geralt over to Jaskier and extending a hand to shake. His eyes, framed by three cruel scars slashing down his face, are guarded yet curious. “Eskel. Heard a lot about you.”

“Haven’t heard nearly enough about you,” Jaskier answers promptly as he shakes the proffered hand. “I might give up being a bard and take up work as a dentist, the way I pull teeth all day with this one. However, I do dearly look forward to remedying his negligence this winter, friend.”

Eskel cracks a smile, and Jaskier thinks he might just succeed in getting into all of these wolves’ good graces after all.

Apparently Eskel’s arrival signals the closing of the keep for winter, now that all of the wolves and their one peculiar guest have arrived. Geralt tells him that the Challenges --and Jaskier can  _ hear _ the weight he puts behind the word and is already writing ballads-- will take place tomorrow night before dinner, once everyone has time to rest and prepare.

He also gives Jaskier some rules. He’ll be observing the Challenges, since custom dictates that all of Kaer Morhen must witness so that they will know the order of the pack. He’ll be seated off to the side, safely, and he must not, under any circumstances, interfere with the events. Geralt is particularly adamant about that last part.

“You have to trust me,” he says fiercely, “and trust my brothers. Without the Challenges, everything-- it all falls apart. Just trust me, and everything will be alright.”

“I trust you,” Jaskier answers, bewildered but firm. That statement, at least, would never stop being true.

When the time comes, Geralt deposits Jaskier alongside Vesemir on a bench at one of the tables in the great hall, leaning in to kiss him harshly before he leaves to go make his preparations. He must already have adrenaline coursing through his veins in anticipation of the fight, because his hand is a little tighter around Jaskier’s throat than it would normally be as he pulls the bard to where he wants him. “I love you,” he growls, darting in to nip at Jaskier’s lower lip, heedless of Vesemir’s presence.

“I love you, too,” Jaskier tells him steadily, not trying to gentle Geralt with his words or his touch. Let his wolf be as fierce as he wanted, today. “Fight well for me, darling.”

Geralt growls, pleased by the words, and turns on his heel to leave the hall. Jaskier watches him go, an undeniable feeling low in his gut that something very, very important is going to unfold before his eyes tonight.

“How much has Geralt told you?” Vesemir asks, drawing Jaskier’s attention from the closed door to the old witcher.

“Enough,” Jaskier hums. “The Challenges, a Wolf tradition where pack members fight each other to establish dominance and affirm the pack order. Geralt is the alpha.”

“Very good,” Vesemir says approvingly. “It’s a paltry affair compared to what it used to be, of course, now that there are so few of us left. It used to be that the Challenges would take days or even weeks to complete. There were many, many wolves, and none too willing to give up a chance to prove their worth against one another.”

“May I ask--  _ you _ don’t participate? Is it because you’re-- well, a man of your, uh, status--”

“It isn’t because I’m old,” Vesemir answers with an amused snort, then hums after a moment as he reconsiders. “Not  _ only _ because I’m old, anyways. If I wanted to, I could make a claim and try to fight. I choose not to, though.”

“Why?” Jaskier flushes at his own boldness. “If I may.”

“No need to mince your words with me, bardling, I’m made of tougher stuff than that,” Vesemir laughs. “It’s not so complicated of an answer. Leadership is a young man’s game, especially in a world where we’re fighting against men and monsters alike. Let the boys scuffle among themselves for their rank. I don’t need to be alpha to know my place in the pack.”

Remembering the permission he was given, Jaskier asks, “And what is your place?”

“At the bottom,” Vesemir replies shamelessly. “Though I’d dare any one of those pups to say as much to my face when I’ve been kicking their arses since they were barely weaned.”

Jaskier laughs at that, imagining the three hulking witchers cowed before the aged man beside him now. Somehow, he doesn’t doubt the truth of the statement. “What about the other two? What are their ranks?”

“Right now Lambert is the second and Eskel the third in pack order, but that changes almost year to year,” Vesemir informs him. “They’re fairly evenly matched. Eskel is stronger and more experienced --though not by much-- but Lambert is quicker and more ruthless. Not to mention that Eskel is a talented magician and has a bad habit of becoming reliant on his signs. There’s no magic in the Challenges, which levels the playing field in Lambert’s favor.”

“So they’re both going to challenge Geralt for alpha?”

Vesemir shakes his head. “You can only rise one step at a time. It works from the bottom up. Whoever ranks the lowest challenges the one above them, and so on and so forth until it reaches the alpha. By the time it gets to the final challenge, whoever stands to challenge the alpha will have already --in effect or in actuality-- shown that he is stronger than all of the rest.”

“I see,” Jaskier says, mind spinning as he processes. “So it would start with you--”

“I waive my right to challenge, but yes. The first challenge would be me to Eskel.”

“Right. So since you aren’t doing that, it’ll start with Eskel challenging Lambert, and then whoever wins that will challenge Geralt.”

“Very good,” Vesemir praises again. “As I said, not such a grand affair as it used to be, but still. At least that means we’ll be done in time for a good supper.” As if the rest of the household is summoned by his words, the door on the other side of the hall opens up to readmit--

\--three  _ very _ naked witchers.

Geralt is in the lead, with Lambert behind him and Eskel in the rear, and none of them has a stitch on except their ever-present wolf medallions. Geralt’s hair is braided back carefully in one long plait down his spine, and his eyes are on Jaskier as soon as he’s in the room. There’s still worry there, worry that hasn’t quite left them in a month, but mostly there’s steel. He’s a man prepared to fight, and so are his brothers.

A little strange that they’re all so ploughing  _ naked, _ but Jaskier supposes he’s seen weirder. Perhaps it’s to show that they have no weapons except for their bare hands. Hard to hide a dagger in your birthday suit, after all.

For a moment no one speaks, and Geralt strides over to an ornately carved chair that sits to one side of the cleared area next to where Jaskier and Vesemir are seated. Jaskier hadn’t noticed the chair overmuch before now, but as Geralt seats himself in it with back straight and knees spread shamelessly, Jaskier sees it for what it is: a throne. The lack of jewels or a raised dais matter not. It’s a chair fit for a king, and their king --their alpha-- is in his rightful place there.

He sits there on his throne, cock half hard, and Jaskier feels himself go hot at the sight. His mouth waters with the need to worship, whether in song or in deed Jaskier can’t half make up his mind. Geralt has never been anything but powerful, not in Jaskier’s eyes, but this is another thing entirely, to see him like this. Jaskier wants to drown in him.

Four sets of yellow eyes look at him, and Jaskier is suddenly reminded that Geralt is no longer the only person who can smell his… state.  _ Oops. _

Geralt doesn’t seem to mind, however, since a little smile hitches the corner of his mouth up and he gives his cock a lazy stroke as he stares Jaskier down. “Who makes the first challenge?”

Apparently that’s the only pomp and circumstance the Challenges need --silly witchers, no sense of  _ drama  _ in the whole lot of them-- because Eskel steps forward at once and raises his chin proudly. “I challenge Lambert for his place in the pack, alpha.”

It’s then that Jaskier notices that Geralt isn’t the only one who has a hand on his cock. Eskel and Lambert both stroke themselves, harder even than Geralt, and Jaskier knows his eyes go wide at the sight. He leans in towards Vesemir and asks, in the barest whisper manageable, “What are-- are they?”

Lambert and Eskel have already started to face off, circling each other in the open space and sizing each other up, when Vesemir looks over with surprise in his own eyes. “Geralt didn’t tell you  _ how _ the challenges are made?”

“He… he said a fight,” Jaskier nearly squeaks. “That doesn’t look like a fight to me.”

Well, alright, it did look rather like a fight, with Eskel and Lambert now wrestling ferociously on the stone floor, but there was still the matter of their hard cocks bobbing dangerously between them. And, if Jaskier wasn’t mistaken, was that the sheen of oil between their thighs, as if they had readied themselves for--?

“Fine way for you to find out,” Vesemir grumbles, throwing a glare towards Geralt. Jaskier follows his gaze and sees Geralt’s attention is divided between the fight happening at his feet and throwing furtive, concerned glances over at Jaskier.  _ I don’t want you to be afraid. Of me. Of us. _

“Well, no time like the present for learning something new about the one you love,” Jaskier says lightly, eyes locked with Geralt’s, knowing he’ll hear.  _ Still not afraid. Never afraid. _ “What are the rules here, exactly?”

“You win by breeding your opponent,” Vesemir says bluntly, and Jaskier can’t quite stifle the surprised gasp he sucks in. “Whoever fills the other with his seed first is the victor.”

“Right,” Jaskier says breathily. “Makes, uh, sense.”

There are a thousand questions whizzing around in Jaskier’s head, but he doesn’t have time to ask him. He’s too busy being sucked into the whirlwind of limbs that grapples on the floor before him. He’s barely looked away for a minute, but already the fight seems to be reaching its apex, both witchers sweating and bloodied from fists and nails and --gods, was that a  _ bite mark _ bleeding on Eskel’s shoulder?

But Eskel’s the one who seems to have the upper hand now, on top of Lambert with their chests pressed together. As Jaskier watches, the larger wolf draws back a fist and slams it ruthlessly into Lambert’s jaw. Lambert howls with the impact, and the moment of shock is all that Eskel needs to seize control of Lambert’s wrists and pin them to the stone beneath them. Jaskier can see the moment Lambert realizes his mistake, tries to wrest back control of his arms, but it’s too late. Eskel’s superior strength is unrelenting in a direct match of muscles.

Their legs, previously tangled, quickly become sorted as Eskel pushes apart Lambert’s thighs with his own. Lambert snarls and tries to twist his hips and flip them over so that he’s on top, but Eskel widens his knees and steadies his stance and refuses to be moved. There’s a long, breathless moment where Eskel ruts ineffectively against the seam of Lambert’s body, cock catching and tugging at his hole without a hand to guide it in, and Jaskier finds himself holding his breath as Eskel huffs and twists and finally,  _ finally, _ pushes his cock inside of Lambert in one rough thrust. 

Jaskier winces with sympathy as Lambert gives a resulting howl, though if he knows anything of witchers it’s probably the defeat that pains him moreso than the abrupt entry. They’d all prepared for this eventuality, clearly, and Geralt had said that their intention wasn’t to actually hurt one another. “So that’s it, then,” he murmurs to Vesemir, unable to look away as Eskel fucks into Lambert fast and hard. “Eskel is the winner.”

“Not over yet,” Vesemir answers with a shake of his head. “It’s all about the seed, boy. The claiming, that’s the thing.”

And so it is that Lambert continues to fight, valiantly and uselessly, as Eskel tucks his head to protect himself from Lambert’s gnashing teeth and continues his relentless pace until he eventually shudders his release inside of the other wolf. Eskel’s low grunt isn’t nearly as clear of a signal to the end as the way that Lambert suddenly goes slack, all of the fight leaving him as he feels Eskel’s come filling him up. 

A moment more, and then Eskel withdraws, standing and offering his hand to Lambert. Lambert smacks it away petulantly and struggles to his feet on his own, scowling as he vaults himself over the table to slam himself onto the bench on Jaskier’s other side. Jaskier doesn’t have the self-control necessary to avoid looking down at where Lambert’s cock juts up, still hard, and Eskel’s come leaks out of his hole onto the bench. 

Lambert catches him looking and snarls and snaps his teeth in Jaskier’s direction, making him yelp. Eskel laughs at the exchange, calling out a teasing, “Oh don’t pout, Lamby, better luck next year!” but his words are drowned out by the growl from the throne that has everyone whipping their heads around to look at the alpha.

“Snap at my bard one more time and I’ll make sure you have no teeth left in your mouth to do it a third,” Geralt rumbles, a timbre of authority to his voice that Jaskier has never heard before. Out of the corner of his eye, Jaskier sees Lambert’s head duck submissively at once. Geralt continues to stare at him, narrow-eyed, for another moment before he glances away, apparently satisfied that his order will be followed. 

He looks at Jaskier next, assessing, and Jaskier smiles at him, perhaps a little shakily.  _ Still no fear. _ Jaskier blows him a cheeky kiss, and Geralt allows himself to look away and size up Eskel instead. “You challenging me?”

Geralt says it with an air of a man who already knows the answer, and Eskel doesn’t disappoint. “I challenge you, Alpha, for your place in the pack.” He stands there, bleeding and sweating, a little tremble in his limbs from the last fight, and yet no less proud and sure than Lambert had been issuing his own challenge just minutes before.

“Fine,” Geralt hums, rising from his throne, seeming unbothered. There’s no circling with them, no sizing each other up, just a few steps to approach and then Eskel is lunging for him like a predator going in for the kill.

The move doesn’t go as planned as Geralt nimbly side steps, throwing out an arm that catches Eskel squarely in the throat and then throws him, gasping for air, stumbling backwards in the little arena. Jaskier sucks in a sympathetic breath. “How can he fight back to back like that? Wouldn’t it be fairer to do his fight another night, give him a chance to recover?”

He expects Vesemir to answer, but it’s Lambert who snorts in reply. “Maybe if there was actually a chance in hell he’d win, sure, but what’s the point?”

Jaskier is confused, and looks to Vesemir for support. The older wolf just shrugs. “Geralt is… different. The processes that make witchers what they are were enhanced in Geralt’s case. He’s stronger and faster than any other witcher alive, this school or any other.”

“So he’s a super-witcher?” Jaskier asks dumbly, eyes returning to the fight in time to watch Geralt take a brutal punch to the gut with only an annoyed grunt.

“It’s… very unlikely that any witcher could ever best him in a fight, yes.”

“Then why did Eskel challenge him, if he knows he’s going to lose?” Jaskier asks, incredulous. It’s already happening, before his eyes, as Geralt darts around behind Eskel and kicks at the back of his knee, causing his legs to buckle as he’s forced to kneel on the floor. Another swift kick and he’s sprawling forward on the stone. “Why subject himself to that?”

Vesemir only shrugs. “It’s the way of the wolf.”

Geralt is mounting up behind Eskel, one hand at the back of Eskel’s neck pressing him down to the floor and the other bruising his hip to keep it steady despite Eskel’s struggling, and when his eyes lock with Jaskier’s, it makes sense. The tradition, the bizarre ceremony, the push and pull that goes on between them. He can see the beauty in it, and the simplicity. He can feel the way it settles over the pack, knowing where each of them stands in relation to each other with no confusion and no further argument. He understands, in a rush, why the Challenges are a part of their lives.

Jaskier continues to hold Geralt’s gaze for a moment longer as he finally pushes his cock inside of Eskel, and then the witcher looks away. He tilts his hips forward and drives Eskel’s down, leaving Eskel flat on his stomach on the floor and Geralt like a weight draped along his back. Eskel’s hands scrabble back at him, nails leaving scratches on Geralt’s arms and shoulders as he tries to fight him off, but Geralt hardly seems to notice. If anything, he gives a growl that Jaskier could swear was arousal when Eskel’s hand finds his braid and yanks it, hard.

None of it phases Geralt in the least, and he presses forward and bites at the nape of Eskel’s neck fiercely, like a beast about to snap the neck of its prey. Jaskier thinks he might hear a whimper as Geralt continues rutting, but over the slap of skin on skin it’s hard to tell.

Jaskier knows when Geralt is getting close, the way his hips lose their smooth tempo and his body curls around the one beneath him all too familiar. Maybe Eskel knows it too, because he makes one last ditch attempt to throw an elbow into Geralt’s side. It lands with a sickening crack, and Jaskier is on his feet with an alarmed cry before he knows what he’s doing.

“Calm yourself, bardling,” Vesemir says, hand gentle but firm on Jaskier’s arm, holding him in place. “Little thing like that won’t stop him, watch.”

And he’s right, of course, because nothing short of death itself would ever stand between Geralt and a task he’d set his mind to. He continues on as if nothing has happened, hips speeding and stuttering and then stalling, pressed deep inside of Eskel, as he spills his seed.

They both breathe for a moment, and everyone along with them, until Geralt gently pulls out and rocks back on his haunches so he has room to stand. Jaskier can see the come starting to leak from Eskel just as it had done from Lambert, and Jaskier does feel a small twinge of jealousy now, if only because he so dearly loves the state of being full of Geralt’s come. Gold eyes flick to him as Geralt scents the air, but Jaskier only shoots him a wink. This jealousy is nothing that can’t be fixed between the two of them later, in the privacy of their rooms. He knows witcher stamina well.

It  _ will _ need to be fixed, however, because Jaskier’s cock is hard and heavy between his legs and he did  _ not _ climb a goddamn mountain in winter to be neglected by his lover.

Eskel, apparently far less bitter about his loss than Lambert, accepts Geralt’s help in standing so that he can limp ever so slightly over to the bench across the table from the rest of them. It doesn’t escape Jaskier’s notice that his cock is soft and there’s a puddle of spend on the stone floor. Geralt was  _ always _ a generous lover, even in combat, it would seem.

“Alpha,” Eskel acknowledges before sitting, and the others echo the word.  _ Alpha. _

Geralt doesn’t acknowledge the title. He’s looking over at Jaskier, eyes hot, and Jaskier becomes aware of the fact that he’s standing when Geralt jerks his head to summon him and Jaskier’s suddenly weak in the knees. He does his best to hurry in response, however, only tripping over the bench a little in his haste.

They stand there, face to face in the clearing where two warriors were just bred in a display of dominance, Geralt bare and Jaskier completely clothed, and it makes Jaskier shiver from head to toe. He’s never seen Geralt radiate power like this, and he’s certainly never felt the urge to touch him like it’s such a physical  _ need.  _ He resists, not knowing what the rules are, not knowing if he’s allowed--

And then Geralt makes the answer clear for him, reaching out for the ties of Jaskier’s breeches and starting to work them open. He hums in approval when Jaskier takes hold of his biceps to steady himself, reeling as his brain catches up to current events. Geralt is undressing him, here, in front of everyone. This makes sense. As long as Jaskier is here, Geralt is his alpha, too, he’ll need to lay claim to Jaskier just like the others, it’s only fair.

They kiss, warm and a little desperate, Jaskier stepping out of the trousers and smallclothes puddled around his feet. When Geralt pulls back, Jaskier opens his mouth to ask… something. Where the oil is, or how Geralt wants him, or what he can do to make this go any quicker because  _ gods _ does it feel like Jaskier’s been hard for years.

But his words are stopped by a little shake of Geralt’s head, and Jaskier is left to just stand and stare in wonder as Geralt steps away from him, over to the long table where the rest of the wolves watch and wait. He kneels on the bench and leans over the table, arms braced on the wood, and spreads his knees apart in an unmistakable invitation. 

Except that it  _ has _ to be a mistake, because however much Jaskier loves the nights where he finds himself buried inside of Geralt, this is different. Here, on  _ this _ night, in  _ this _ room, it means something different. It would mean… 

“Come here,” Geralt says over his shoulder, and Jaskier is drawn towards him like a marionette with its strings being tugged. He’s pressed against Geralt’s back, his body knowing where he belongs even when his mind is still reeling. “I want you to,” Geralt hums, his voice vibrating against Jaskier’s chest.

Jaskier’s fingers reach up of their own accord and grab Geralt’s braid just as he’d seen Eskel do, pulling to make Geralt’s back arch until he can steal a kiss over the witcher’s shoulder. “I’ll not leave you wanting, love,” he murmurs into Geralt’s lips.

There is a small part in the back of Jaskier’s mind that is aware they have an audience, but only in the very dimmest sense. All that Jaskier is truly coherent enough to note is that Geralt feels like heaven around him when he slides his cock home, tighter than he’d be if Jaskier had done the prepping, slick with oil that he’d put there knowing Jaskier would be taking him by the end of the night. He knows that Geralt groans at the intrusion, forehead resting against the table, throat bared, doing nothing but opening himself up to Jaskier and letting himself be utterly taken.

It’s such a contrast to the rough, combative encounters that came before that Jaskier feels something sharp pinch in his chest. The message here is clear: Jaskier need not struggle for his power. Not when Geralt would give it to him, willingly, regardless of time or place or who was watching. 

This isn’t going to last long, not with Jaskier’s heart in his throat, but that’s the point, isn’t it? He drives his cock deep inside of Geralt over and over again, skin meeting with a harsh sound, hands roaming Geralt’s muscled back and toned thighs and delighting when the witcher flexes like willow beneath his touch. He slides one hand around Geralt’s hip to take hold of his cock, finding it hard and already slick with Eskel’s oil and his own spend, and works it in time with his thrusts as he hurtles towards completion.

“Geralt,” he pants out, desperate, and instead of answering with words, the witcher just hums and reaches back to spread himself wider for Jasker, and that’s it.

Jaskier’s nails open scratches on Geralt’s back as he comes inside him with a groan, angry red marks rising on pale skin in a place where Eskel’s couldn’t reach. It’s all that Jaskier can do to keep working his hand on Geralt’s length a moment more, until the man beneath him jerks and spills for the second time, slamming his fist against the table with an emphatic  _ fuck _ as he does so.

When Jaskier pulls out, it’s the third time tonight that he sees evidence of a claim marring smooth skin. It is, however, the first time that the victor has coupled the sight with a gentle brush of hands and a steady kiss and a murmured,  _ I love you. _

Geralt looks at Jaskier with an unwavering gaze, and simply declares, “Alpha.”

“Alpha,” echo Eskel, Lambert, and Vesemir.

Something skitters over Jaskier’s skin that he can’t put a name to, but Geralt is looking at him with such fierce love that he can’t do anything but nod.

Eskel and Lambert head off to the kitchen to get food for dinner, and Vesemir busies himself stoking the fire, and Jaskier folds himself into the strong embrace of his witcher. He lets Geralt hold him up, both the weight of his body and that of the night’s events. “Bath?” he asks quietly.

Geralt shakes his head, pressing kisses to Jaskier’s scalp. “Not yet. Dinner first. It’s part of the tradition. Unity instead of conflict. After though.”

“After,” Jaskier affirms.

Jaskier sits in the throne --his throne-- for the meal, Geralt at his side, the others laughing and talking and carrying on as if nothing strange had ever happened. It was still there, that sense of settledness, like everything was in order and everything was going to be alright, now. And after, once everyone has eaten their fill, Geralt takes both of them to the hot spring and washes them clean with such tender touches that one could hardly believe his hands had ever committed an act of violence. 

In bed that night, wrapped in furs and in Geralt, firelight dancing on their skin, Jaskier traces the shape of a bite mark on Geralt’s arm with one delicate fingertip. He makes a point of  _ not _ bothering the bruising on Geralt’s side that almost certainly heralds a broken rib, because he knows the witcher will only get grumpy if he fusses. Jaskier keeps his worry to himself and nuzzles at the piece of Geralt’s chest closest to him. “Why?” he simply asks.

Geralt doesn’t need any further explanation. “It makes you a part of the pack,” he replies. “You don’t have to challenge your way in or fight for a place. And no one will ever challenge you, because they’d have to go through me. You have a place here, now. You are… part of me. Always.”

That  _ does _ sound nice, and Jaskier hums happily to let him know how much he appreciates the words. “It can’t be real, though,” he argues softly nevertheless. “It can’t count. I’m not even a witcher, how can I be alpha?”

Geralt’s turn to hum, this time contemplatively. “The rules don’t really cover this. No one’s ever tried to bring a human into the pack before. They may still consider me their leader, since I’m the witcher with the most standing. They all named you alpha, though. It’s a title with meaning.”

A little bubble of anxiety started to swell in Jaskier’s chest, and he tensed against Geralt. “But I can’t  _ lead _ though. What if I-- what if something happens and I’m expected to know what to do? I couldn’t--”

“Be calm,” Geralt says firmly, taking Jaskier by the chin. “It doesn’t matter. You’d never face such a thing alone. I’ll be by your side, always.” He kisses Jaskier’s forehead and then lets the bard’s head rest on his chest once more, rubbing his back soothingly. “If it would make you feel better, though, we could do a little test to see who’s really alpha.”

“What kind of test?”

“You could tell them all to go to one side of the courtyard, and I’ll tell them to go to the other. See which way they run.”

A smile breaks out across Jaskier’s face, and he stifles his laugh in Geralt’s shoulder. “We’d break them, poor dears.”

“Better not, then,” Geralt hums, huffing out a small laugh of his own. “Some things are better left unbroken.”

Jaskier thinks of the traditions of the wolves, of the strange and confusing series of choices that have brought him to this place in his life, and he can’t help but agree. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Inspiration for the pack dynamics and the idea of challenging your way up the ranks of the pack are taken from the works of Patricia Briggs, who is an incredible fantasy author and I highly recommend you checking her out if you're into good plotty fantasy stories with just a dash of sex to keep things spicy. Her wolves don't fuck each other though. That's just me wildin.
> 
> Let me know what you think!


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